I CAN'T SPEAK
'How am I going to communicate with this trache in my throat?' This question
had been high on the list after first being put on the respirator. 'Does anyone
read lips?' To my surprise and my delight, my first wife could read my lips
almost perfectly. As long as she was in the room, there was no problem, but
she was only there half a day.
My parents, in-laws, and I developed a method whereby if there was a word
I was trying to say that they couldn't understand, they would ask what letter
it began with. They would recite A-B-C-D-E... and I wouldn't make an expression
until they reached the correct letter. I would then widen my eyes or make
a tiny sound with air I could get into my cheeks. If the first letter wasn't
enough to guess the word, it was on to the second and the third. After a few
days of this, it became a slow but reliable method of communication.
If no one was in the room with me, I could make a duck-like sound by squeezing
air between my cheek and gum that would get the attention of whomever was
outside the door at the nurses station. I used this most often if I detected
a leak in the hoses that carried the oxygen from the respirator. The system
had an alarm that would sound if a tube became disconnected. But because of
my stillness and sensitivity to that much needed air, if I was deprived the
even least little bit, I became acutely aware and would sound my own alarm.
(When you hold your breath, you can still puff your cheeks in and out without
air escaping from your lungs. That was enough air for me to make my sounds.)
'So when is my surgery?' I knew I wasn't going anywhere until my broken
neck was mended.
In the first week that had passed, while concentrating on my ability to
breathe and trying just to get me stable and comfortable, there were other
things going on in my body. I had been catheterized to regulate my bladder
and what often comes with prolonged catheterization is the Urinary Tract
Infection. One of the symptoms of the UTI is a high fever. They will not
operate on a patient with a high fever. The combination of the trauma of
being paralyzed, the recurring infections and pneumonia kept my temperature
constantly elevated. Consequently, it would be weeks before they would perform
the operation to realign my spinal cord.
'What do we do in the meantime?'
A day or two after the trache was put in, Dr. Bregman came in the room for
his rounds and asked me how I was feeling. He then told me the following day
they would begin weaning me from the respirator.
'How long do you think it will take?' I asked.
"That's entirely up to you," he answered knowingly. "See you tomorrow,"
and with that he left the room.
The nurse came in next and informed me it was time for suctioning. This
was quickly becoming one of my least favorite routines. In this process they
remove the respirator tubes -- my source of oxygen -- from my trache, take
a long skinny sterile catheter with one end attached to a vacuum and stick
the open end into my trache hole down into my lungs to suck out secretions
that accumulate there. This is common with all people who are on a respirator.
The problem is, the entire time she is sucking out the secretions, there
is no oxygen in my starving lungs. With my inability to inhale without the
respirator, I am breathless, helpless, and in fear of passing out. Suctioning
only takes seconds but it was an eternity as far as I was concerned. Then
she has to do it again. Twice every time. This is ultimately good because,
by clearing the lungs out, I am better able to breathe. But early on, while
my lungs are so weak, it's like the fear of drowning all over again.
When she is finished, she quickly reattaches the respirator tubes and gives
me a few "sighs", otherwise known as oxygenating me. These are puffs of air
that can be given in addition to the regular breaths provided by the respirator.
Little did I know a time would come when I would look forward to the horror
of being suctioned just so I could receive the delicious "sighs" at the end that refill
my lungs and give me a wonderful -- however brief -- sense of calm.
HOME2 - NEXT PAGE